


Next Time, I Get to Seduce the Rich Guy

by BlastHardcheese



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:44:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlastHardcheese/pseuds/BlastHardcheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha's all ready to seduce some info out of a rich guy for SHIELD. They find out at the last minute that the guy is gay. Clint, who is straight as an arrow (pun intended), has to do it instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Time, I Get to Seduce the Rich Guy

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for an old kink meme prompt which can be found [here](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/4305.html?thread=3672017#t3672017).
> 
> Based on that great line from MI4.

“This one?” Clint held up a flashcard for Natasha. He tried not to take his eyes off the road for too long as he attempted to read the name written on the back of the card.

She stopped applying mascara for a moment and glanced over. “Matteo Ricci.” 

“Next?” He held up another card. 

“Abraham Ortelius. Clint, we’ve been over these twenty times today,” Natasha replied.

He stuffed the cards under the car seat. “Only seventeen.”

“Then I doubt I’m going to learn any more about antique maps in the next fifteen minutes. My brain is already at capacity. You should be paying attention to the GPS.”

“I am,” he said. He wasn’t. There was a good chance they were totally lost.

Natasha blotted her lipstick. “Why are you so nervous, anyway? I’m doing all the leg work.”

Clint snorted a laugh and muttered, “ _Leg work..._ ” Without looking he knew Natasha was rolling her eyes at him. He continued, “All I’m saying is if you need me to feed you names of sixteenth century cartographers, I‘m not going to be able to help. At all.” It wasn’t just that. This was straight up espionage with a strict no violence rule. Clint felt he’d be far less concerned if he or Natasha could just threaten this guy for the intel they needed.

Just then Natasha’s phone rang. Probably Coulson, checking in on them as usual. She snatched it up. “We’re thirteen minutes out.” She was adjusting the bust of her green chiffon dress when the caller said something that made her freeze. “What?” Clint glanced over at her several times. The look of concern and shock on her face told him all he needed to know. Something with the job had gone south. 

“No, we’re not doing that. Is there another way?” Silence. “There has to be.” A lengthy pause. “This is bullshit. This is _bullshit_ ,” she retorted, sounding very angry. “Put Fury on the phone. I don’t care what he’s doing, Coulson. I want to make sure this is real and not something you or someone else has cooked up in their perverted little brain. And don’t put me on with--Agent Hill, hi. I was trying to speak with Director Fury.” The tension in the air was so thick Clint wanted to crack a window. 

“Yes. I understand the situation, but we are not prepared for this change in plan. He’s not prepared.” Now he was really concerned. Clint furrowed his brow at her and mouthed, “What’s going on?” Natasha waved him away with her hand.

“Please, let me talk to Director Fury. And don’t play games with me, you know I can blackmail you.” She began tapping her perfectly manicured nails on the dashboard. “He said it was a very important meeting? I know his code words, Maria. Wake him up. He can take a nap later.” Another long pause. “That’s a nice excuse. Say, remember that time I found that security tape of you and Stark fu--Thank you, Maria!” Clint looked at the clock. They were only eight minutes away from their destination. Whatever the hang up was, they better get it sorted out soon.

“ _What seems to be the trouble?_ ” Natasha was saying indignantly. “Sir, I’m not about to send in Agent Barton in to seduce this guy.” 

The car swerved. “What?” Clint yelled, loud enough for Fury to hear. Had he heard that right?

“You’re the ones who fucked up the intelligence. And I understand that he’s the only one with access to the information we need, but Sir,” Natasha stammered a few more “sirs” trying to get a word in edgewise. She finally reached her limit and stated in an absolute, commanding voice, “We’re aborting the mission.” Clint could hear Nick Fury’s surprised “ _Excuse_ me?” through the phone’s earpiece. He clenched his jaw. This was how it was going to have to go. He could handle it.

“Nat. Nat,” he said, trying to get her attention. She held the phone away from her ear, Fury’s tirade lost in the air. “It’s okay. I can do it. Give me the phone.” 

She hesitated but handed it over. “Don’t let him bully you in to anything,” Natasha snapped, crossing her arms and staring out the window pointedly.

“--And then, Romanoff, we’re going to sit down and have ourselves a little talk you will not enjoy.”

“Sir, it’s Barton. What’s the mission?”

“The same as before. We need the latitude and longitude of an AIM weapons drop and this guy, Adam Fyodorov, has access to this information. Based on past dealings with him, we believe he keeps important files in his bedroom rather than in his study, hence the seduction angle. It’s the only surefire way to get in there without causing a ruckus.”

“What if he prefers the kitchen floor?” The question came out sounding a little sarcastic, but Clint was genuinely concerned. If he was going to go the distance with another guy he wanted it to count.

“Then change his mind. Now, we want to stay on good terms with Mr. Fyodorov, so no rough housing unless he’s in to that sort of thing. Look, until ten minutes ago we had no idea he was gay. There just isn’t time to change the personnel on this mission. The drop is being made early tomorrow and we have to be there to stop it, but we need the location,” Fury explained. He had shifted in to his serious but sympathetic mode of speaking. The situation must actually be dire.

Clint took a deep breath. “I expect this to be reflected in my next paycheck.”

“Good luck, Barton,” was all Fury said before hanging up.

“Don’t take this exit. Go down one and pull into the nearest hotel,” Natasha directed in an emotionless monotone. She was still turned toward the window. And now she wasn’t just mad at Fury. She was mad at Clint too. Great.

They traveled in silence that was only broken when they went past their exit and the angry British lady who lived in the GPS chastised them. She proceeded to sound even more annoyed as Clint did not make a U-turn after taking the next exit. He kind of enjoyed pissing off the GPS lady. 

When they parked at the hotel Natasha wordlessly grabbed a small bag from the trunk and stomped inside, the skirt of her sultry yet tasteful evening gown billowing behind her. Clint followed her straight into the men’s restroom where she locked the door. Looking around he guessed this place must be fancy. They had cloth towels rolled up in baskets by the sinks with ornate bins in which to toss them after use. That’s pretty fancy.

“Come here.” She was brandishing a brush in one hand and some sort of hair product in the other. Clint did as he was told. There was no use resisting and anything he could say would just make her angrier. After using a generous amount of product, she cocked her head to the side and studied her work. Then she looked over the whole picture.

“Your suit is awful,” she said flatly. 

“Earlier you said I looked good.” He felt a little hurt. This was one of his own suits. He always thought it was fairly stylish.

“Any self-respecting, affluent gay man wouldn’t be caught dead in something so baggy. Not to mention that thing has to be six years old. You’ve worn it to every wedding and funeral we’ve ever been to, and we’ve worked a lot of weddings and funerals.” She studied him again. “Wait here.”

“Where are you--oh never mind.” He plunked down in one of the plush chairs inside the restroom and waited. A very confused man came in to use the toilet and left quite quickly.

The lavish party Adam Fyodorov was throwing to celebrate--Clint couldn’t remember what exactly--had started twenty minutes ago. Granted, it was a party so maybe that didn’t matter. God, he was nervous. Never mind the ancient maps, how was he going to pull off being gay? He was going to say or do something that would completely out him as a hetero, he knew it. Who could he act like to be a more convincing gay man? He always had this feeling that Tony Stark wasn’t quite as straight as he always seemed to be. There was a lot of showmanship in his everyday demeanor. Regardless of orientation, Tony kind of rubbed people the wrong way, so he probably wasn’t the best person to emulate. Clint dropped his head into his hands and almost ran his fingers through his hair when he jerked back up remembering not to do that. All Natasha’s hard work. 

Natasha. He blew out a long breath of air. She was really upset. He was dreading trying to talk to her about this. She had never really talked to Fury like that before, completely livid and authoritative. It was nice to be reminded that she cared so much. This line of work didn’t allow for one to make very many friends and those you counted as friends could be totally alienated or taken from you at any time. He was lucky to have her on his side. Clint smiled a little.

“Here, try this on.” Natasha had burst back into the bathroom and relocked the door while handing him a suit she had been hiding in her voluminous skirt.

To say he was amazed would be an understatement. “How--”

“I asked the guy at the desk if he knew what room my friend was in--five foot ten, athletic build, very sharp dresser--flashed him a big smile and a little cleavage and then got you a suit. I had to go to three different rooms before I found these shoes, though.” She plunked down a pair of shiny leather dress shoes.

“Where were you keeping--”

“Get dressed.” Despite her taciturn mood, he could tell she was pleased with herself.

“Yes ma’am,” Clint responded as he stripped. The new suit felt very expensive. It was made of a slightly textured silk that had a bit of a dark purple sheen when it caught the light. That poor guy was going to be in agony over losing it. Well, maybe he was a misogynistic jerk so he had it coming.

“Be careful with that. It’d be nice to have in the future. Here, I got you a tie too,” she said softly. Her anger was giving way to concern. Fantastic. Now he was just going to end up feeling guilty. Natasha flipped up his shirt collar and placed the tie around his neck.

He watched her as she carefully tied a nice half-Windsor knot. “Thanks for sticking up for me. And for the snazzy suit.”

She smoothed down his collar and held out the jacket for him. It fit like a glove. “Well, you need all the help you can get. And it’s just a job.” She offered him a small smile. “Let me look at you,” she said, taking a few steps back. He stood up as straight as possible and tried to look composed but casual. She nodded in approval. 

The old suit was crumpled up and shoved inside Natasha’s bag. Seeing it go like that made Clint a little sad. He had some good times in that suit. Sue and Reed’s wedding. The entire Buenos Aires mission. The only office Christmas party SHIELD ever had. Then again, maybe the party hadn’t been as amazing as he thought. No one who attended could recall the second half of the night.

She must have noticed the look on his face. “If you’re so attached to this thing we can frame it. Time to get focused.” She pulled two tiny earpieces out of her purse and handed one to him. 

“I’m always worried this will just fall into my ear and lodge itself in my brain. Communications test. Test.” 

She wrinkled up her nose at his comment. “That’s gross. Test.” He nodded. “Let’s go.”

Now they were a good forty-five minutes late. Clint’s nervousness was escalating despite Natasha’s reassurances. “The only difference between men and women is the anatomy” and “You’re a guy, just think about what you’d like” and “Well, don’t all of you like to have your dicks sucked? It’s just a suggestion” really weren’t helping him feel any more confident. And confidence was kinda what the whole seduction gambit was about. When it came time, he knew he could do it. In the interim, though, the anticipation was killing him.

She put her hand over his as he gripped the gear shift. “If you get stuck, I’ll be on the comm. Just be yourself. But, you know, interested in men.” 

Fyodorov’s house was humongous, though somehow not gaudy. Clint thought there was a law against un-gaudy things in Florida. Upon exiting the car they were assaulted by several attendants that took the car, handed them each a glass of Cristal, and ushered them to the atrium in a befuddling whirlwind. 

“Let’s stick together for a little bit, but don’t stand too close to me,” Natasha interjected as they made their way into the room. Tendrils of her dress fluttered behind her as she walked. The atrium was packed.

He nodded slightly and surveyed the room. “Can I stand too close to the buffet table?” Her eye roll was almost audible. “Come on, we can play Spot-the-Adulterer. That’s your favorite party game.”

After some light grazing and making idle conversation with a few other guests, Clint spotted Fyodorov across the room. “Nat, maybe I should meet our host soon,” he murmured. Suddenly he was a tad shaky. “But let me have another drink first.”

As he made his way over, Clint looked Adam Fyodorov up and down. He was roughly six feet tall, slender, red hair, and was actually pretty attractive. As a straight man it was reasonable to want the man you had to seduce to be good looking, right? That made sense. He swirled his drink around as he studied the other man.

“Don’t stare,” Natasha’s voice whispered in his ear. “Just go look at those maps right there. Remember the flash cards?”

Clint sighed. “Sure don’t.” He studied one regardless, smiling at it a bit. As he moved to the next one he glanced at Fyodorov again. They made eye contact. Clint smiled warmly and downed a large sip of whiskey as he slowly turned to the next map, maintaining eye contact the entire time. If he couldn’t at least get this guy to come talk to him out of sheer curiosity, he had no idea how else to approach this. It would work.

“Are you planning on talking to him anytime soon?” Natasha asked somewhat exasperatedly.

“Give it a sec.” 

“Well, we don’t have all night.” 

“Bossypants.”

Natasha paused. “Wait, I think he’s coming over. Act nonchalant. Drink some more whiskey and act like you’re really studying that map. Which one is it?”

“I have no idea.”

“You could try to date it. Or just talk about something totally unrelated. He’s almost there.”

“Are you going to be talking the whole time?” Clint muttered as Fyodorov approached.

“Can I get you another drink?” Fyodorov asked, already motioning to one of the waiters. “I’m Adam Fyodorov. I don’t believe we’ve met.” He had a very slight eastern European accent.

“Thomas Albertson, the Naval History and Heritage Command. Nice to meet you,” Clint replied, slowly shaking his hand in a tight, lingering hold. “I didn’t expect someone so…young,” he added like it was the most pleasant surprise ever. Now he just had to keep this up long enough to get upstairs, then holding Fyodorov’s attention might be easier.

Fyodorov smiled. “Do you study cartography?”

“No, I’m just a historian. I’m a fan, though. And I hear you have an amazing collection.” 

“Smile more, your face is too intense,” Natasha said quietly in his ear. He did as he was instructed. 

“I’m afraid all the good stuff’s upstairs,” Fyodorov apologized. Clint’s replacement drink arrived and, as Fyodorov handed it to him, he was sure he made as much casual, unnecessary contact as possible. Really, he had no idea if guys responded to obviously deliberate stuff like this. All he could do was hope the gratuitous, steady eye contact translated the way he hoped it would.

“Of course it is,” responded Clint, a sly smile playing on his lips.

Fyodorov glanced around the room momentarily and leaned in slightly. “Would you like to have a look?”

Thank God. “Yeah, I would.” As he followed Fyodorov out of the room Clint caught a glimpse of Natasha’s concerned face before the door closed.

Clint only had to feign interest in one musty map before Fyodorov backed him into a wall. Clint anxiously licked his lips. Their slight height difference seemed amplified now. He could definitely take this guy in hand to hand combat if it came to that. There was no reason for this knot in his stomach. Everything would be fine. Totally fine.

Fyodorov ran his thumb over Clint’s wet lips. “You don’t actually want to look at these, do you?” he asked, doubtful. Without hesitation Clint drew the digit into his mouth and sucked on it, slow and lasciviously, before letting it slide out.

“No way,” he answered.

And then he was kissing a man. It really wasn’t so awful. Not something he’d like to make a regular thing out of, but this guy wasn’t half bad. Fyodorov slid a hand through Clint’s hair. Still, this was a little weird. If Fury had asked him to do something like this three years ago, he would have been as vehemently apposed to it as Natasha was. Working at SHIELD had really done a number on him. Now, here he was, letting his head loll against the wall as some millionaire undid his shirt while sucking on his neck, all for some random information. What was it again? A name? Codes? Coordinates? Clint was having trouble remembering with this guy’s tongue in his mouth.

He was being guided backwards, taking small fumbling steps. He put his hands on Fyodorov’s waist to steady himself. As they haphazardly entered a new room Clint shrugged out of his jacket and open shirt and stepped out of his shoes. Fyodorov pushed him onto a bed and slowly peeled off his own shirt. Clint propped himself up on his elbows and watched him through heavily lidded eyes. This guy was actually pretty cut despite his lithe figure. He must workout a lot. He probably had a personal gym and didn’t have to share with anyone. God, that would be nice. No one fucking up your treadmill settings everyday.

Clint needed to keep his mind from nervously wandering. He sat up and pulled Fyodorov down onto the bed by his belt. Fyodorov crushed their open mouths together again and moaned softly into Clint’s mouth. As they thrust against each other desperately, Clint ran his hands over the other man’s chest. Natasha was right, this wasn’t a whole lot different. It was sharp angles instead of soft curves. And no breasts. He missed breasts. 

His concentration was broken when Fyodorov palmed his crotch. Clint made an embarrassing, half-moaning sort of noise. Suddenly, he realized that he was partially hard. Maybe it was because he was thinking about Natasha. And breasts. And had nothing to do with making out with a topless dude. He was probably going to need a trip to the office psychiatrist after this mission.

Fyodorov was kissing and licking his way down Clint’s chest while unfastening his pants. Well, this was it. Clint lay back, balled up the bed sheets in his hands, and shut his eyes. He felt his pants slide down. There was a moment that seemed to go on forever where the anticipation just built and built. Then something hit Clint in the chest. He sat bolt upright. 

It was a manila folder. He looked up at Fyodorov, completely confused. “I--uh…What just happened?”

“The coordinates you’re after are in there. Unless you really wanted that blowjob.” He waggled his eyebrows a bit. 

“Oh. Uh, no thanks,” Clint stammered. He was still trying to fully grasp the situation. “How did you know?”

Fyodorov waved his hand in reply. “I figured Fury would send someone, but I didn’t expect him to go the seduction route. I’ve never gone for that in the past, but I guess he finally wised up. Oh, and, seriously? It looks like a team of analysts spent a week dressing you.” He sat down next to Clint, who was now very aware of how nearly nude he was.

“My partner will be flattered you thought so,” he responded pulling his pants back on clumsily. 

“Anyway. I cultivate relationships with all sorts of people. I just kind of wanted to see what Fury would do if I withheld this information. Have to get my kicks somehow. There are only so many thrills one can get from historical cartography,” Fyodorov remarked as he leaned back on his elbows. They sat in silence for a while. Clint was still getting over the giant wave of relief that he didn’t have to actually have sex with this man. At first he was almost, well he wouldn’t say disappointed, but something like that. He had psyched himself out about the whole thing so much that the lack of follow through was a little disconcerting. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Fyodorov asked. Clint nodded. “Are you even a little queer?”

That was a fair question. “Uh, no. Not that I know of.”

“Shame. You really should consider batting for the other team. You’re not bad.”

Clint snorted a laugh. “Thanks. I think.” 

Fyodorov stood up and offered Clint a hand. “Well, better get to work, Agent.”

Clint took a minute to get partially dressed and find the remainder of his clothes on the floor. As he approached the door to the stairs he turned and held up the manila folder. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Fyodorov replied with a shit eating grin on his face.

“So, meet at the car?” Clint nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Natasha’s voice in his ear.

“Were you just _listening_ the whole time?” he asked in exasperated disbelief.

“What else was I going to do? You didn’t want me talking the whole time and this party is completely boring. You made some really interesting noises--” she started.

He covered his face with his hands. “Just--I’ll meet you in the car.”

Natasha was waiting for him sitting in the passenger’s seat with the door open, legs crossed and barefoot, eating a large piece of pineapple. “You’re a mess,” was all she said.

Clint handed her the folder with the pertinent information paper clipped to the cover. “Call it in and let’s go to bed.” He squeezed in beside her, sitting in the floorboards and resting his head on her lap.

“Hi, Coulson,” he listened to her say. “Sorry for yelling at you earlier. Yeah. Yes. Ready? 42.5083 degrees north, 89.0317 degrees west. Can you confirm it with Fury while I’m on the line? Thanks.” There was a long pause during which she said, “Let’s stay somewhere nice and make them pay for it.” Clint groaned in a agreement, too worn out to give a real response. “Yes, sir. Excellent. Clint, is there anything you want to report to the Director?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m never doing that again,” Clint muttered lazily. “And I need at least a week off. And a raise. And psychiatric counseling.”


End file.
